


Early Birds

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9500663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: Sam finds a new favorite research spot. It just also happens to be your favorite research spot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog Trope Challenge. My trope was “two strangers who have a silent daily battle to get the same muffin/most comfortable chair/parking spot/certain object at the coffee shop/library and the rivalry turns into something more."

There’s a table in your favorite coffee shop that is _perfect_. It’s in front of the window, near a wall outlet, and it has just enough space for everything you need: your laptop, your notes, your cup of coffee. It doesn’t wobble when you lean on it, and the chair is actually comfortable. Officially you “work from home,” but you always get more done when you’re somewhere else, and getting up early to work from the coffee shop has become your ritual. You’re usually the only person in the place when you arrive, and you always _always_ sit at the same table.

The first time your table is unavailable, you’re a bit annoyed, but you try not to take it personally. It’s not like you have any real _claim_ on that table. Plus you’ve never seen the guy before, and that doesn’t happen very often. Lebanon has a population of maybe two hundred people, and you’ve lived here your entire life. And you would definitely remember someone so insanely good-looking. He appears innocent enough, long fingers whizzing over his laptop keys and gaze intent at the screen. He probably just didn’t know that it was _your_ table. Every other table in the place is empty, so you take your coffee and your laptop to the second-best table. It wobbles a little when you set your laptop down, but it’s fine. You’ll have your table back tomorrow.

**

But he’s there again the next day, and the day after that. _Where did this guy even come from?_ You’ve been sitting at that table every weekday for months, and there’s never been anyone else in here this early in the morning. You order your coffee and stomp over to another table. You have to pull it back a few feet so your laptop charger will reach the nearest outlet, and you don’t even bother trying to be quiet, hoping the screech of metal against wood will make it through whatever is pumping through his headphones. You glare at the back of his ridiculously pretty head.

He is absolutely huge, long legs folded up under the small table. When he picks up his coffee, his hand makes the large cup look positively small. Despite how irritated you are with him, you have to admit he’s attractive, ruggedly handsome in a way that says he’s doesn’t really have to try. The obvious strength rippling under that thin layer of worn flannel is sort of mesmerizing. He looks your way suddenly and catches you looking at him, and he smiles sort of, just a flash of a deep dimple in his right cheek, and looks down again. Your cheeks burn and your knees wobble and you stare down into your coffee. You barely get any work done that day.

**

The next day you set your alarm an hour earlier than normal, determined to get there before him so you can claim your table. Maybe then he’ll realize that it’s _your_ table and quit stealing it. You get there at 6:05 a.m., just after they open, but he’s already there. _Is he waiting outside before they open so he can swoop in and claim the best table for himself?_ You grumpily order your coffee and sit down a few tables away from him.

When you glance up, he’s looking your way and you immediately look down, take a too-hot sip of coffee, and nearly choke. You firmly decide not to look over at him anymore. That is, until he stands up and starts walking toward you. Or at least, you think he’s walking toward you—turns out he’s walking toward the trashcan to throw out his empty coffee cup. You give him an awkward smile and rest your elbows on the table in an attempt to look casual. The movement wobbles the table forward and dumps one of your books loudly onto the hardwood floor.

Your cheeks are on fire— _ugh why are you so clumsy?_ And even worse, when you bend down to pick up the book you find he’s already there, long fingers curved around its spine and arm outstretched, pushing the book into your hand.

“Here you go,” he says, his voice rough as sandpaper.

“Thank you,” you manage.

**

Friday morning, your alarm goes off almost ridiculously early. Just because he’s nice to look at and irresistibly charming doesn’t give him the right to always sit at your perfect table. But your stomach is fluttering a little as you pack your laptop into your bag. At the last second, you swipe a little gloss over your lips.

When you get there, your table is… empty. Your stomach falls, much to your own surprise, when you glance around the place and realize he isn’t there. You slide into your favorite seat, knowing you should be happy—you’ve been internally grumbling about this stupid table all week—but you’re filled with disappointment. He must’ve only been in town for a few days, you think, and you regret not striking up a conversation with him when you had the chance.

**

It’s been a couple weeks since the table incident with the handsome guy—that’s how you think of it, when you think of it, which is all the time because you can’t seem to put him out of your mind. And just when you’ve finally convinced yourself that you’ll probably never see him again, he shows up. Like no time has passed at all, he’s back in your seat on a Wednesday morning, sipping coffee and bent over a huge book that looks ancient. He glances up when you walk in, gives you a half-smile with _that dimple_. Your stomach lurches, and you smile back shakily as you head to the counter to order your coffee.

You take the second-best table again, and you try to work, but you can’t stop watching him. He’s completely absorbed in what he’s reading, marking notes on a scrap of paper every so often. The way he’s dressed, you’d assumed he was a farmer—most people in Lebanon are—but no farmer you’ve ever known frequented a coffee shop, and they certainly didn’t read books like that one.

Suddenly he snaps the book shut, looking pleased, and shoves his paper into the pocket of his jeans. He leaves in such a hurry he forgets to take his coffee with him, and after a moment an irritable barista walks by to collect it. You wait until he’s been gone for a few minutes before you move your stuff over to his vacated table.

**

A few days later, you’re having one of those mornings where nothing at all goes right—you sleep through your alarm, traffic in town is insane, and when you get to the coffee shop it’s packed with chatty teenagers. Turns out there was an impromptu _parade_ of all things—something about a local marching band practicing for an upcoming event in Wichita. You wait in line for near twenty minutes, hoping that by the time you get your drink the place will have cleared out a little bit. No such luck. You turn around and every single table is occupied by high schoolers. There’s literally only one chair available.

He looks up at you and jerks his chin toward the empty seat across from him. You return his easy smile and weave your way through the crowd to take a seat at your favorite table.

“Thanks,” you say. “I wasn’t expecting all… _this_ today.” You gesture with your hands at the noise happening behind you.

“No problem,” he says, and his voice is warm and pleasant. “What’s going on, anyway?” He marks his page and closes the book he was reading, giving you his full attention.

“High school marching band. Didn’t you get to see the parade?”

“Oh, uh, nope. Must’ve missed it.”

“Lucky you. I followed it here.”

You can’t look away from his eyes; you’re too busy trying to figure out how many colors are there. He clears his throat. “So you’re in here a lot,” he says, friendly. “What are you working on all the time?”

You take a tentative sip of your coffee and withdraw your computer from your bag. You are here to work after all, even though all you want to do now is continue talking to him. “I’m an offsite data analyst. It just helps me to get out of the house most of the time, you know.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding and glancing down. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Are you new in town? I’ve never seen you before.” He knits his eyebrows at the question. “I mean,” you scramble a bit, “I just, I’ve lived here my whole life and I thought I knew everyone. It’s not a very big town.” You pause. “And people don’t move to Lebanon, Kansas very often.”

He laughs a little. “Yeah, I guess not, huh? I guess you could say I’m relatively new. My brother and I… inherited a place a bit outside of town. Sometimes I just need to… you know, get out of the house a bit.” He grins as he flips your words around back at you.

“Yeah, I get that.”

“I’m Sam, by the way.”

“I’m Y/N,” you say, smiling as you open your computer and tap in your password. “Welcome to Lebanon.”

You work—a little—and Sam reads. After a while, he stretches his legs, his left foot bumping against your right. You look up from your screen, and his cheeks turn pink as he apologizes, reigning his long legs back under his chair. You pull your own feet in too, cheeks burning.

At one point you realize that the marching band students are gone and there are a bunch of open tables, but you stay where you are, working in comfortable silence with Sam.

**

You expect him to be there again the next day, but when you get there, the table’s free. You set your bag down on the chair, a little torn between being glad you’ve got your table and bummed he’s not there. At least you’ll actually get some work done today, you think as you head to the counter to order your coffee.

“Hey, uh, this one’s on me.” You look up in surprise as Sam’s hand reaches over your shoulder to hand the barista a twenty. He dimples down at you as he adds, “And a large caffe latte.” His hair is slightly damp and tucked behind his ears, like he just got out of the shower. This close he smells like Ivory soap and clean laundry, and it’s a bit dizzying, the ground under you slipping sideways a little. You blink up at him, trying to catch your bearings.

“Thanks,” you breathe, swallowing against the giddy feeling rising in your throat.

“Um,” he glances down, biting his lip a little before meeting your eyes again. Your knees are water. “Want to share a table again?”

“Sure.” You pick up your drink as the barista sets it on the counter. “I claimed us the perfect table.” He laughs and follows you back to the window to sit down.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been hogging this table for weeks, I didn’t realize it was the ‘perfect’ table.”

Your cheeks flush, but you laugh. “It’s my favorite table.”

“Well, in that case, thanks for sharing it with me.” His smile nearly knocks you out of your seat. As you open your laptop bag, you notice suddenly that he doesn’t have anything with him—no laptop or book or anything.

“Not working this morning?” you ask.

“Oh, uh… I just got back into town this morning, so I was a little rushed getting here.” He pushes his hair back from his face; you notice that he has scratches on the back of his hand. You wonder why he’s even here if he isn’t working on anything, and then you realize that he rushed here just to buy you coffee.

You close the bag again without pulling out your laptop. “Hey, do you want to… I could take the day off,” you begin, feeling unexpectedly shy. “Want to go grab some breakfast? There’s a really good diner just down the street.”

The jolt you get from his smile is better than coffee.

**

The next morning, your heart starts thumping when you see that chiseled profile through the window, those shoulders hunched forward, brows knit as he stares at his laptop screen. You smooth your hair as you walk through the door, your stomach flipping as you walk up to his table.

“You know,” you say, feigning annoyance with one hand on your hip. “I’m getting pretty tired of you hogging the best table in this place.”

He smiles as you join him, and it’s perfect.


End file.
